


The Mornings Collection

by The_Jashinist



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Characters as Parents, Diana Prince/Jonathan Crane-Crackship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major Original Character(s), Minor Ship References, Minor Violence, Next Generation, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Present Tense, minor blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Jashinist/pseuds/The_Jashinist
Summary: Snippets of a particularly memorable Saturday morning for the children of the Gotham Rogues, told from their perspective.
Relationships: Selina Kyle/Edward Nygma
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. Tobias "Tobi" Iseul Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> I've been hesitating on formally publishing any of my work with the Rogue Kids, they've been outwardly posted about on my tumblr for ages but I've only just now felt comfortable enough doing anything major with them here. Yes, there are a few ships, the ones that are still ongoing in the story are tagged.
> 
> For those of you not introduced to my tumblr, there are 23 Rogue Kids I call "active" as in I'm working with them and they have a definitive role in the universe. In the universe I currently don't actually have any of the canon children of the rogues written, but I might add a few later if I really want to. This will update weekly.

I wake to Dad’s alarm, not mine. Mine’s already turned off on its own, and it’s hard to miss the twin-bell alarm clock Dad wakes up to. My head’s pounding and my ears are ringing, but if I stay in bed much longer, he’s going to scoop me out of bed. I’d prefer not being woken up to Dad’s cheerful need to have breakfast with me every Saturday morning.

I can already smell potatoes frying by the time I’m out of the shower, and Dad’s humming along to the radio. I take a quick look in the mirror that goes from a few seconds to a minute, fussing with my eyebrows and pushing my right eyelid closed to make sure I don’t have any eyelid tape stuck to the top. Dad doesn’t like me using it, and frankly, I think it’s a pretty stupid trend, but you don’t land a Friday DJ gig at the Cakeshop on 8th Avenue with a monolid like mine.

“Tobi!” Dad calls. I fit my glasses over my face and swing out of my room. Dad grins when he sees me. He looks nothing like me, but he still feels like home. He gives me a big hug the second I’m close enough for him to grab without stretching. He can grab me from anywhere in my room, but he doesn’t like using his powers in the apartment. “Good morning,  _ Abhi _ ,” he says. I’m too old for pet names, so says Leo, but Dad insists. He never had a dad, or  _ nanna _ as he says, that took care of him. He wants to be the best dad he can be.

“Good morning,  _ baba _ ,” I answer, and hug back. Dad lets go and hurries back to the kitchen, where he’s carefully dividing spiced potatoes and chutney onto plates already heaped with dosa. Indian food is all Dad knows how to cook. It tastes like home to me way more than anything my friends call home cooking. Sure, it’s nice to try things from the country I was born in, but I’ve spent eighteen years eating chutneys and masalas at home. You can’t really compare them.

“Where were you working last night?” Dad asks as he drops off the plates at the table. He noticed. Of course he did. Dad used to frequent nightclubs like the Cakeshop, and he figured out about my night gigs a month in. I only have good equipment because he knows.

“The Cakeshop,” I answer, knowing what his response will be. Dad clicks his tongue, not in disapproval, more in distaste.

“Never liked that place,” he continues as if I haven’t heard this before. “Some of the  _ yedava  _ that come into the shop talk about it.”

“Don’t they also call it Japanese?” I ask. I know the  _ yedava _ ; it’s Dad’s word for white boys who get Japanese and Chinese characters tattooed on themselves and pretend they know what it means. I think  _ yedava  _ means idiot, but I don’t know enough Telugu to be certain.

“Some of them do,” Dad confirms. “How did it go?”

“Good.” I’m picking at my food, and Dad’s chewing has slowed. He’s watching me quietly now, waiting for me to take a bite.

“Eat.” Dad taps the plate. I look up at his hand. His vitiligo has spread up his arm. The highest splotch sits, pale against his rosewood skin, just below his elbow. The intricate tattoos on his forearms are too vibrant in some places, where the pigment faded after the tattoo was put on. He designed these himself; the most popular thing his shop offers. He must know I’m looking because he sighs.

“Tobi, you need to eat breakfast,” he reminds me. “What’s your worry?”

“Nothing,” I lie.

“You can’t lie to me,  _ Abhi _ .” He gives my nose a playful tap, but his face is soft and sad. “What’s wrong?”

I sigh and lean on the table. “Do you ever feel like you’re not part of your own culture?”

He’s going to say no, I know he is. He speaks Telugu, he cooks Indian food, he can do henna and all his custom tattoos are inspired by South Indian art, and I know he has a kurta in his closet. Dad sets his mouth and traces the table.

“Yes, Tobi, I do,” he answers. I look up. I must look confused because he smiles at me.

“You know my  _ nanna _ was Ashkenazi?” he says. “And yet, I don’t know a lick of Hebrew. I don’t know how to cook Jewish food, and I don’t even like how matzo tastes. My  _ nanna _ didn’t teach me those things, and I can’t teach you to be Korean,  _ Abhi _ . I’m not Korean. Now come on, eat. It’s your favorite chutney, and I worked hard on it.”

I finally start eating, and my Dad smiles and ruffles my hair.

“I love you,  _ Abhi _ .”

My mouth’s full of food, but I know he understands that I love him too.


	2. Dorothy Antiope Crane and Pluto Trevor Crane

My alarm bleats like a goat, and I lift my head to find a large black cat sleeping just above it. I give her an experimental poke, and she responds with a disgruntled “mrrrp” before lifting her head and glaring at me.

“Morning, Bones!” I greet her in return, then sit up. I turn to the mirror fixed atop my dresser and try to tame the disarray of black curls tumbling haphazardly over my shoulders. I only succeed in finding the hair tie that got stuck in there last night, and I walk out of my room to find some scissors.

Dad finds me first.

“Hold your horses there, sweetheart,” he says, taking the hair tie from my hands and carefully working it out of the knot that’s formed. “Y’all lose these all the time. I’d rather you didn’t destroy this one.”

“Jon, do you have a hair tie?” Mom asks and she walks in. She tosses her dark hair, and I’m jealous of how nicely it falls. Pluto comes trudging after her, tripping over a small gray cat as he walks.

“In a sec, I will,” Dad answers. “Mornin’, Pluto.”

“ _Oui, bonjour_ ,” Pluto mumbles, then glowers down at the cat. “Masque, _ce n’est pas necessaire._ ”

“ _Le chat ne comprend pas français_ ,” Dad remarks. “Also, your first language is English, darlin. Please don’t whine to me in French.”

Mom opens the freezer and pulls out a box of toaster waffles with “BREAKFAST ONLY” in Sharpie across the label. She sticks two in the toaster and leans on the counter. Dad works the hair tie loose and hands it off to Mom.

“Do you have plans today?” Dad asks, addressing Mom.

“Founder’s Lunch,” Mom sighs.

“I don’t have to go to that, do I?”

“Jon.”

“I don’t see the point of sitting at a table with men I’ve been pummeled by while Hal tries to talk Lantern business with me. I didn’t get the ring for my shining social skills.”

“Jon.”

“Didn’t get the ring for heroics either.”

“ _Jon_. Bruce wanted you to come. He invited Lois too.”

“Can I sit across from Lois and talk to her the whole time?”

“No.”

Dad lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Do we have to go?” Pluto asks, pouring coffee into a soup mug.

“Pluto, what are you doing?” I ask.

“Caffeinating.”

“Do y’all have plans?” Dad looks like he wants us to go. Mom looks like she doesn’t want anyone to go.

“I was gonna hang out with Niall and Marcus,” Pluto answers before I can. Mom and Dad exchange a look.

“I had plans,” I pitch in. “But if we have to go, I can tell Lizzie and Gwen that terrorizing Gotham’s off today.”

Dad ruminates on that, then stops to look at me properly. I’m pretty sure he was asleep when I got home. If he wasn’t, I’m definitely in trouble.

“You didn’t do that enough last night?”

“I’d hardly call watching Max’s most recent stint of lawbreaking ‘terrorizing Gotham’,” Mom points out, my savior as always.

“Street racing’s illegal, Diana.”

“Says the man whose normal Tuesdays used to be flooding the subways with a bioweapon.”

“Touché.”

“Either way, they don’t have to go,” Mom continues. “And you have to eat.”

“Thanks,” Dad mumbles. He ruffles my hair and ambles off into his room. Pluto walks over and leans on the counter next to me.

“Marcus?” I repeat, giving Pluto a look.

“What’s wrong with Marcus?”

“He’s a jerk.”

“Dorothy, you’re a jerk.”

I stare at the wall for a few minutes, thinking. Pluto takes this moment to add, snidely.

“And you didn’t mention Max in your motley assortment.”

“Max has dad plans.”

“Aha! So you would hang out with Max.”

“You literally hang out with Max’s younger brother. Are you judging my taste in friends?”

“You hang out with the duo that rickrolled the whole school.”

“That was fantastic, thank you.”

“Kids.” Mom turns to us. “This is a fight without a point. I’d like it to end.”

“She started it,” Pluto argued.

“And you’re trying very hard to be the one to finish it,” Mom added. “You don’t need the last word. That’s what gets your father into fights. Now, both of you: get dressed.”

Mom gestures to us, both standing in the kitchen in our pajamas. Pluto takes a sip of his coffee-soup and trudges off to his room. I look to Mom. She looks happy, despite everything.

“Love you, Mom.”

Mom looks over at me and smiles.

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three disasters and one functional woman trying to get them to BE functional.


	3. Ezekiel "Zeke" Bruce Dent

My alarm vibrates instead of ringing. I’ve figured out how to adjust it so it’ll wake only me up, after a lot of trial and error. Dad doesn’t mind, but then again, it’s not Dad I’m worried about.

I get dressed in my bed. Moving too much will wake Dad, and it’s always a crapshoot to know which of them is out in the morning. I tug at the collar of my T-shirt. My collarbone juts out from my skin, but if you can’t see it, you’d never know.

Dad’s on the couch, asleep. I sneak a quilt over him and gather up two empty bottles of Bailey’s before I leave. I close the door slowly and readjust my backpack. My laptop feels heavy inside it, like it’s full of guilt.

I lock the door and the latch clacks loudly. If I wake Dad now, I’m not home; it doesn’t count.

I look up from the lock. There’s an orange slip on the door, a final notice. The reason listed is excessive noise. It’s not me, but neither of them want to be responsible.

I turn to the stairs. I have to pass the landlady on the way out. She knows who I am. Everyone knows who I am. I look like him. They all say it.

Maybe that’s why Dad needs to nitpick my every move.

I try to sneak past the landlady’s apartment. I figure if I make it past her, I can be done with this building for the day.

“Zeke.”

No luck.

I turn to the landlady, forcing a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Christie.” 

Mrs. Christie is an older woman. Her hair is tidy, pulled back into a low bun, and a pair of round glasses sit on her face. She reminds me of a teacher, but not a mean one.

Then again, I’ve never had the best opinion of teachers.

“Is your father up?” she asks. “I got another noise complaint last night.”

“He was asleep when I left,” I answer. I don’t explain the noise complaint. If I’ve gone this long without anyone noticing, why should I trust anyone to know?

Mrs. Christie’s face softens a little. “Are you hungry, dear?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Christie, thank you.”

Mrs. Christie doesn’t believe me; I can tell. She purses her lips and nods.

“Have a good day, Zeke.”

“Mmhm.”

I hurry from the conversation, away from the building I’m supposed to call home. My friends call their house home. I call it the place where I sleep.

I’ve got a goal in mind, a place to go. They’re stuffed in my laptop, the papers. I can’t go to Mr. Wayne. He’s Dad’s best friend, and I don’t want to break his heart. Mrs. Prince would want to help, but I can’t let her stick her neck out for Dad again.

I climb the steps of the apartment building. Mr. Grayson saw me enter the complex, so he knows I’m here. I knock three times, and he opens the door. Seeing him is a relief, even if he looks a little bewildered.

“Zeke?” he says, confused.

“Mr. Grayson,” I say, my voice attempting to sound level. “I need to talk to you. It’s about my dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one hurt to write, I'm just saying.


	4. Evangeline "Eva" Victoria Fries

I wake early; I always do. I’m heading down the stairs as Mom sits down for breakfast. She smiles at me, looking a little stern at the sight of my running shoes and training clothes. I don’t have practice Saturdays, but I feel restless if I haven’t been out and moving at least once a day. My stepfather gives me a stern look, one I don’t return.

“Eat breakfast, Eva,” he says.

“I’ll eat after I run,” I reply, tying my long hair up. “If I eat first, I’ll just feel sick.”

My stepfather wants to reply, but he knows I’m right. He sits back and I walk out. We live in a nice part of Gotham, nicer than most of my friends. Nevertheless, I have pepper spray clipped to my belt.

Leo tells me I’m always running. I don’t know what from, but I have a few guesses. Sometimes I think it’s my dad, my powers, the stiff way my family’s always skirting around everything about me. Mom tries, and I’m not going to complain about my stepfather. Mom loves him, thinks the world of him.

My sneakers hit the pavement like a stuttering heartbeat, and the cold wind is turning my pale cheeks pink. Cold air is metallic, but for me, it’s familiar. Cold’s always been with me; Mom says it’s part of my blood. I wish I could disagree, tell her she’s wrong, but I know she’s not. Even if I barely ever see my dad, and he avoids me, what am I supposed to say?

I pause at a corner and lean on a frigid metal lamppost, catching my breath while everyone around me bustles about like snowflakes in a blizzard. They don’t notice me. I’m not one of the kids they notice. That’s because I’m like Mom. I’m a pretty blonde girl with nothing outwardly off. I don’t look like my dad, not in any way people notice. I’m sure somewhere down the line, someone will notice that my eyes are the same ice blue as my father’s, or that in reality, my hair’s his white-blonde, not my mom’s golden.

I sigh and stand up straight, looking up as snow begins drifting down into the throng of people. I should get home before the snow really starts, but I stand for a bit, and suddenly I feel warm.

I look across the street and I see a man at the corner. A metal device covers his nose and mouth, and his eyes are covered with ski goggles. If you weren’t looking, you’d think he was over-prepared for the cold, but I know that machine. I know every cord and cog. It’s not built for keeping the man warm. Quite the opposite really.

I step up to the curb and call to him across the busy street. I think my voice doesn’t make it, so I try again.

“ _ Vati! _ ”

He turns, lifts his goggles, and our eyes meet. It’s only for a moment, and I know my guess was right. Dad’s blue eyes are impossible to miss, impossible to forget.

In a movie, maybe Dad would run across the street and hug me, a tearful reunion to jerk tears from the audience’s grasp. That’s not how Dad acts. He pulls his goggles back down and hurries into the crowd, disappearing without a trace. I want to be angry, but I can’t bring myself to be. He’s right to avoid us, to stay away. I understand that. And yet, I still wish, somehow, I could have the happy family I wanted as a little girl. One with a mom and a dad who love each other, with no stepfather resentful that I’m still breathing.

I think I’m too attached to fairy tales sometimes. But at others, I think the world’s too sad for me to not believe in knights and heroes and princesses.

What else am I going to believe in?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -checks notes-
> 
> Yea we don't get anything purely happy for a few weeks.


End file.
